


Golden Ticket

by berlynn_wohl



Category: U2
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-07
Updated: 2002-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl





	Golden Ticket

**INTRODUCTION**

Do you remember watching "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" as a kid? Did you feel that thrill when Charlie, that average little boy-next-door, a kid who could have easily been you or me, uncovered the golden wrapper, and realized he had a ticket to the inside of a veritable candy mecca? A yellow foil pass to sweet paradise? Did you feel the rapture Charlie felt when it dawned on him, just what thrills lay ahead?

I don't know; maybe you didn't. Me, all I remember feeling about that movie is creeped out. Those Oompa-Loompas scared the fertilizer outta me. And that chick who turned into a blueberry? Seriously. But I think you see the point I'm trying to make. For the curious young mind, there is no greater thrill than taking something apart to see how it works. To see what happens behind the curtain. What goes on when the cameras go off. That is why, just as our ancestors swooned at the idea of Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood, our generation salivates when we hear the words "All Access."

Today is your lucky day. I am handing you a backstage pass. Here are six short episodes from your adventure.

 

 **1**

You can tell Edge doesn't really like sleeping in the same bed as Bono. Even if he's exhausted from a twenty-hour day and a gig, Bono has trouble winding down; his body may be drained but his mind won't stop and he often must fight for sleep. He tosses and turns. He steals the covers and gets himself tangled up in them, then violently throws them off when he gets too warm. Even after he falls asleep, he talks, sometimes yells. The first few times he hollers in his sleep, it frightens you. Edge shakes him awake and asks what's wrong.

"What do you mean, what's wrong? I'm trying to sleep over here."

"You weren't having a nightmare?"

"I wasn't dreaming at all." Bono pulls the covers over his head and tells Edge to go away.

It is astonishing that Ali or Edge could ever get used to sharing a bed with him without getting fed up and smothering him with a pillow. You imagine their only hope is to fall asleep first, and not be woken in the night by one of Bono's flailing arms. Even when he's asleep, you can't contain him.

****

Tonight, Bono sleeps alone. He's had a busy day; a whole lot of them, actually. The nights, short as they are for him on this diplomatic mission, are lonely. When he has trouble winding down, he can't just go next door and ask the Nigerian Minister of Finance to keep him company. He had asked Edge to come along with him this time, but Edge refused. He couldn't stand to see Bono hanging out with these conservatives and corporate moguls. You get used to being in close quarters with someone; he and Bono had been apart for four days, and you can tell, by the way he carries himself, by the way he's often caught staring into the distance, that Bono misses him terribly. Particularly in the wee hours.

Bono lies curled up on the 400-thread-count sheets, wide awake in the luxury hotel, consumed by loneliness. Like many aspiring insomniacs, he clutches the goose-down pillows to him, and they are wrestled with as he tries to get comfortable. He ends up resting his head on the mattress just below one pillow and clutching the other to his breast, as if cuddling a lover. He's thrown the covers off and lies curled around the pillow, eyes open, his breath not slowing. He shifts again, but stops abruptly. You wonder if he sees you. No, that's not it; it's just that the soft, silky fabric of the pillowcase has rubbed tantalizingly against his naked flesh, and when one is lonely, it is much more difficult to resist temptation. He starts to slowly rub himself against the pillow, grunting softly, his expression still forlorn. You couldn't tell by looking at his face that he was getting any pleasure out of it, but then, this activity seems to be not so much the pursuit of pleasure as an escape from loneliness. He buries his face in the pillow, groaning low in his throat, and pumps his hips faster, one hand pressing on the opposite side of the pillow to increase the friction. His groans turn to high whimpers; but these are not the noises he usually makes during carnal acts. Rather, it sounds like he's about to cry. You wish you could go over and comfort him. This is such a sad situation to be a silent witness to. At last he grabs his cock impatiently and gives it a few strokes to finish himself off. He shudders and then is still, pulling the pillow away only when it's begun to make him sticky. The next day he will turn the pillowcase inside-out and hope it isn't obvious to the maid what he did. He misses Edge even more.

 

 **2**

There are many things about Bono that you sort of knew all along, but you didn't really realize them until you started spending all this time spying on him. Today's example: Bono loves to put things in his mouth, and like a curious child he does it constantly, or at least whenever he doesn't need the apparatus free to sing, eat, or pontificate. When he's not doing one of these things, he's gnawing on pens, smoking, kissing innocent bystanders, sucking on straws, or leaning over the stage to bite fans' fingers. If nothing else is readily available, one of his own fingers or a thumb will do.

But most of all, at least when he's away from home, he likes to put parts of Edge in his mouth. Fingers, earlobes, nipples, tongue, penis. The pinker and more tender, the better. Anything he can't actually suck on, he will kiss, lick, or nip. Sometimes you see Bono undressing Edge with his eyes; you can tell because he gets the same look in his eyes as he does when he's in a restaurant perusing a menu: Ah yes, _that's_ something I'd like to have between my lips.

Another of Bono's sexual quirks that you've observed is his ability to sustain himself for long periods of time in just kissing. It's been your own experience that men tend to gloss over that part and go straight to the next step. But many is the night you've watched Edge rubbing himself through his jeans and trying to get Bono's clothes off, while Bono seems content to just explore Edge's mouth with his own.

However, although Bono is no foe of extended foreplay, when he does want it, he wants it. Now. And being a spoiled rock star, he's not used to being denied things, or even being made to wait for them. Edge knows this, and exploits it occasionally. Edge is not known to be a vengeful person, but you've made yourself comfortable in numerous hotel armchairs and watched him wreak havoc on Bono for all the teasing he'd done.

On this particular night, you have seated yourself on a sofa that faces the bed. There is a chair which is nearer, but the sofa affords a better angle, which you have learned by now is more important than proximity.

Bono and Edge enter the room shortly thereafter. There is the usual milling about, checking the mini-bar, innocuous chatter, and then, with no apparent tangible cue, they undress. You've been looking forward to this; Bono has been a terrible tease all day. Giving Edge sweet little innocent kisses and then acting like he wasn't even there. Edge had been very patient with some hysterical fans that day, but he showed considerably less tolerance towards Bono's incessant flirting and innuendo. You ran and set up camp in their hotel room the moment you heard they were on their way; you didn't want to miss a moment, once they had found some privacy.

Bono lies on his stomach, legs spread, and looks back to see where Edge is. When Edge crawls on top of him he whines with anticipation and raises his rump invitingly. Edge pushes it down and sits, rubbing the head of his stiff cock against the soft skin at the small of Bono's back. It is not the ultimate in sensation, but he makes it sound like it is, groaning and grunting, telling Bono how good it feels. Meanwhile, Bono's own erection is trapped between his belly and the mattress. He kicks and whimpers.

"Ah yes," Edge says. "Keep doing that. Your agony is gorgeous."

The problem Edge has with his teasing and tormenting is, sometimes, impaired as he is by his own arousal, he doesn't know when to stop. He ignores the moment, when it comes; the precise moment when to answer Bono's pleas would be the most mutually satisfying. Soon, Bono is writhing and grabbing at Edge, scratching at him with his fingernails, yelling not out of lust but of anger, in a manner that could be construed as unforgivably violent, if you didn't know these two men so well. At this point, it is all Edge can do to calm Bono down so he can lubricate him and they can continue.

Wow. Watching Bono and Edge fuck _never_ gets old. Although when you think about it, when you take two people as dynamic, multi-faceted, intelligent, and energetic as Bono and Edge are, it's no surprise that for them, every night brings new and exciting experiences.

Although you have always desired an illicit relationship with one (or hell, both) of these men, now you're not so sure. It seems to take a lot to satisfy Bono. He'd surely wear you out. You wonder where Edge finds the energy. Bono certainly seems to enjoy each bout of lovemaking, but Edge has got to really fuck the hell out of him for him to be truly satisfied. Otherwise, after they've finished, Bono will get up, wander around the suite, watch Edge sleep, make phone calls, write. You're curious to see that kind of things Bono would write about after what he and Edge just did, and draw near him, not fearing he will see you. He is sitting at an oak dining table, scribbling on hotel stationery/ You look over his shoulder. The lyrics are nothing out of the ordinary; the same things you've seen him jotting down in the streets of Munich, in a diner in Miami. Chant-along choruses about hope, love poems, angst with a lilt. Bono really is a lofty individual, rising about his immediate situation to write from some other, higher place.

 

 **3**

Edge is an unparalleled multi-tasker. You already knew this from seeing him grapple onstage with guitar and keyboard during "New Year's Day." But you never suspected this trait might carry over to the bedroom. Or the living room, as the case may be. You discover them tonight lounging, alone, in Bono's New York apartment. They're watching a documentary on public television. Edge seems more into it; Bono is obviously restless. He fidgets, gets up to get a drink from the kitchen and annoys Edge with half-hearted questions about what he missed. You deduce pretty quickly that the documentary is about ants in the rain forest, and it features incredible close-up footage of these insects eating, building, communicating, fighting, and dying. Bono tries for the remote, but Edge keeps it away.

"Don't you think this is interesting?" he asks.

"Come on, this rainforest bullshit is for Sting."

Before Edge can defend the program, Bono whispers something in Edge's ear. You can't hear, because the sound is up kind high, but after a bit more murmuring you see Edge unzip his trousers and push them down to his knees. Bono leans down and begins to suck him.

This situation doesn't particularly shock you, if only because you've seen it happen before. Last month Bono and Edge did it doggie-style in front of the television so they could watch the Oscars. You still find it difficult to believe that Edge isn't distracted from one of these activities by the other. You get up and walk around the couch, watching Edge's eyes, and they truly are fixed on the television. He rubs Bono's neck and looks down occasionally to whisper, "It's good, it's really good, keep going." Then he goes back to watching the ants. He doesn't take an overly long time to come. He lets Bono know he's getting close, and for the last few moments he looks down to watch what Bono is doing. It does not appear to be a particularly intense orgasm, rather leisurely, actually. When they're done, Edge pulls his trousers back on and returns his attention to the television, while Bono rests his head on Edge's thigh. When the documentary is over, they both nap.

 

 **4**

There's no occasion for the gift. Edge has bought Bono a set of price French skin creams, each one delightfully scented and reminiscent of some fruit of flower. It's just a little thing, really, nothing Bono couldn't have bought for himself. But he is thrilled; he sits Edge down and they open each of the eight bottles and take turns sampling the fragrances. Bono makes note of certain scents that complement other scents. The fruits all go together well; the florals are more fickle. Edge gives him a funny look but says nothing, not being one to stand in the way of data acquisition. That night, after the gig, they return to the hotel, still sweaty and sticky, as it is the new policy to be out of the venue before the house lights go up. They shower together in utilitarian fashion, lathering one another but inducing no orgasms. Out in the front room, Bono tells Edge of his plan. He makes Edge lie down and climbs on top of him, rubbing the strawberry-scented cream all over him, then demands Edge do the same to him in return, with the kiwi-scented stuff. Edge follows Bono's lead, applying the lotion briskly, but lingering over all the usual places. He slides his slippery fingers over Bono's ribcage, under the sensitive curve of flesh at the back of his knees. Bono stretches luxuriously and tells Edge, "Yes, exactly like that, you're doing it perfectly." When he's finished, Bono pulls him close and they rub against each other, encouraging the scents to mingle. Bono presses his stomach to Edge's, then slides down to inhale the tantalizing new fragrance they've created. At first their skin glows with the lotion, but once it's been thoroughly rubbed in they marvel at the softness and smoothness it has induced; it's like they have new skin to explore, new bodies.

They must think themselves fragile, being as soft and scented as they are, for they make love in a gentle fashion. Edge lies on his side, his chest pressed to Bono's back, and penetrates him from behind. All the while, he presses his nose to Bono's neck, inhaling the new mixture of the fruity lotions and Bono's fresh, musky sweat. Afterwards, they shower together again, which nearly rids them of their strawberry-kiwi concoction, but as soon as they near the bed they can smell it in the sheets. Bono pulls a sheet off the bed, holds it to his face, breathes deeply. Already there is an erotic memory attached to that smell, and he makes it clear to Edge that already he is newly sexually inclined. Edge senses an endless cycle ready to develop, and refuses him.

The next chance they get to be alone, Edge suggests that this time, to delay the mingling of the differently scented creams, they should each anoint themselves, apart from one another, before commencing with the touchy-feely stuff. Bono enthusiastically agrees, and uses the opportunity to showcase his exhibitionism. Edge sits on one corner of the bed and applies his jasmine-scented lotion liberally but methodically. Meanwhile Bono, in the opposite corner with his lavender bottle, makes a big show of it, wriggling on the bed, rubbing it into his nipples and anointing his genitals. This time the sex is more brief and energetic, no doubt due to the new variable of anticipation. Your only thought is, Edge better find a place to buy more of that stuff, because it's gonna go fast.

 

 **5**

Edge sits on the plush sofa, noodling his way through a new melody. It is a little different than his usual fare: more notes, more subtlety, a more complex structure. He's having a difficult time with it, but he's been at it for hours; it must be eating away at him. Perhaps this will be U2's new sound: elaborate melodies. You hope this won't conflict with Bono's latest lyrical phase; lately he's been coming up with staccato beat-poet compositions. That could spell trouble.

It's one thing when Bono comes begging for attention while Edge is watching television or reading a magazine, but this is work. Edge completely ignores Bono's nakedness, but Bono seems determined. He sits next to Edge on the sofa and whispers his name. Gets no response. He repeats it, "Edge..." and strokes the glossy, curvy body of the Gibson. Nothing. He finds this very upsetting. He claps his hand over the strings, sabotaging Edge's efforts.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Bono curls up right close to Edge and whispers in his ear, things he only ever whispers, things you wonder if people are permitted to say out loud.

"Come on Edge, fuck me in the arse...let me suck your dick...I'll do anything."

"No."

"Tell me I've been a bad boy."

"No."

"Tell me I've been a bad girl, then."

"What?!"

Bono licks at Edge's earlobe and whispers, "Ooo, I'm such a slut. I've been whoring myself all over town. Aren't you angry with me?"

"No, because I know that's not true."

"You're not playing along. Come on, please, tell me how bad I've been. Punish me."

"Punish you."

"Yeah. I need to be taught a lesson."

Edge shrugs and sets his guitar aside. It will take less time to go along with this than to deny Bono and wait for his resolve to give out. In the blink of an eye, he's reached around Bono's neck and grabbed him by the hair, pushing him down so he's buns-up over Edge's knees.

"Oh yes! Bono squeals. "Give me a good spanking!"

Edge lays his hand delicately on Bono's smooth behind, then raises the hand to give him a good hard slap. Bono cries out in pain, and you watch Edge pull back, hesitating in fear, until Bono yells "Harder!" Edge does it again, slapping the other cheek with more ferocity.

"You," he says, "have been very bad."

"Yes! Yes!"

"You're a little slut, aren't you. Aren't you?"

"Oh, yes!"

Edge rests his palm at the base of Bono's spine, sliding down, his fingers only for a moment probing Bono's tight opening. Then, just as quickly, he raises his hand again and gives Bono another smack, until the china-white skin is pink and sore. He repeats this cycle, reaching down to caress Bono's balls before administering another slap.

Bono's eyes roll back in his head and he begs louder with each hit. You glimpse his erection as he thrusts his hips, trying to get off on Edge's thighs. Edge has an erection now, as well, and he orders Bono to tend to it. Bono entreats, "Just one more," but Edge says no, and pushes Bono to the floor, where he kneels, unzips Edge's jeans, and goes to work. All the while, Edge tells Bono what a slut he is, but his effort is half-hearted; it must be difficult to act angry when it feels so good.

When Edge nears orgasm, Bono stops and looks up, trying to make eye contact, but Edge has got his eyes closed and his head tilted back. "Look at me," says Bono. He waits for Edge to do so, then gives him his best doe-eyes while kissing the tip of his cock. "Am I forgiven?"

"More," Edge says stoically. "I don't believe you're really sorry."

Bono whimpers and resumes, his pace quickened. In moments Edge comes, calling Bono's name, no trace left of his falsified anger. After Bono swallows, he lifts his head and looks Edge in the eye again as he gasps for air. Edge slides a finger into Bono's mouth, and Bono sucks on it with renewed enthusiasm. As he pushes it in and out, Edge says, "This mouth doesn't answer to anyone but me, right?"

Bono nods emphatically. "Mmm hmm!"

Edge takes his finger out and grabs Bono's still-hard cock. And who does this belong to?"

"It's yours," Bono gasps. His head lolls back. "It's all yours."

Edge cups Bono's sore, red rump with both hands. "And how about this, hmm?"

"It's...oh...it's yours."

"That's what I like to hear. Alright, I forgive you."

Bono visibly relaxes and smiles. "Thank you so much. Now..." he takes his neglected erection is his hand, "will you take care of this for me?"

Edge was just going to pick up his guitar again. He's not in the mood for any more of Bono's weird sex stuff.

"If you ask very nicely..."

"Yes?"

"I'll let you pleasure yourself."

"I beg your eternal pardon?"

Edge tunes the A string nonchalantly. "You're the one that wanted to play this game."

Bono growls. "Fine. Please, Edge," he rolls his eyes, "may I pleasure myself?"

Edge shrugs. "Go nuts."

Bono collapses, dejected, next to Edge and begins to masturbate. Edge picks out the tune he was working on before. He acts like Bono's not even there. But a funny thing happens: as Bono becomes more excited, Edge's playing takes on a more urgent tone. The notes are gradually higher. Bono's stroke speeds up, and Edge plays faster. You cannot believe you're seeing this; Bono and Edge's disparate activities are synchronizing with and reflecting each other. And it seems like once this begins, it advances exponentially. Bono goes faster and harder, his pace impossible to sustain for lone, and Edge falls into one of his trademark repetitions, encouraging Bono to continue despite his fatigued wrist. Bono's toes curl, his legs spasm, his hips thrust, his back arches, he throws his head back. His orgasm has washed over him just as Edge's melody has. The whole time, Edge never looked at Bono, although there was admittedly no ignoring his noises of delight and the push of his pelvis against the sofa.

As Bono recovers from his orgasm, Edge plays something low and soothing, something that belongs at the end of a U2 album. You hope he ends up using one of these melodies on a record, just so when you go home you can brag that you heard it first.

 

 **6**

Bono and Edge are not a perfect match by any means. They certainly have a strong enough bond to see them through quarrels, but in the bedroom, just like in the studio, these two men are not as precisely compatible as one may guess. You find this out one night while Bono is going down on Edge. As Edge nears his climax, Bono pushes his thighs open and tries to penetrate him with one finger. Edge squirms and says, "Don't do that." Bono retreats, not wanting to interrupt the task at hand. But afterwards, he asks why not.

"I don't like it," says Edge.

"How do you know you don't like it? You haven't even tried it."

"My mother used to say that about green beans when I was a kid. But I knew somehow."

Bono smirks. He must think Edge is just not in the mood. He tries again, a week later. They collapse in bed together, exhausted, but after a few minutes of stillness, Bono reaches over and begins to stroke Edge's backside, beginning with a light touch but soon rubbing in earnest. He gets no response, not even a sigh, but when he slides a finger between Edge's buttocks, Edge rolls over and mumbles into the pillow, "I said no."

You don't think it's that Bono wants to suddenly be the dominant one. It seems more like, he so loves to touched that way, he wants Edge to enjoy it the way he does. You believe this has something to do with a suggestion that Bono makes later.

****

Edge has the suspicion, and so do you, that Bono only wants to do it because it's the dirtiest thing he can think of.

He's been pestering Edge about it for a couple weeks now. You're rolling your eyes by now; he's brought it up again, and in public, no less. You sit in a nearby booth at the cafe and eavesdrop on their conversation.

"How come you'll put your cock there but you won't put your tongue there?"

"Bono, you sound like a dissatisfied housewife."

"Well, I _feel_ like one!"

"Don't give me that. I put up with your ego, I keep you out of trouble, I fuck you when you want to get fucked..."

"See? You do every other thing in the world for me, why won't you do this?"

"Lower your voice."

Bono leans forward conspiratorially and whispers. "What are you afraid of? Germs? We can take a shower beforehand and get all soapy. Scrub scrub scrub." He grins.

Edge puts up his hands. "Later okay? We are not discussing this right now."

That night is the MTV Video Music Awards. U2 have a nomination or two which will probably prove fruitless, but the VMA's are fun and afterwards there's a wild party, there always is, and Bono keeps an eye on Edge's drinking. He knows his friend well enough that he can calculate the point where he gets talkative and a little more talkative, the point where he gets tipsy and uninhibited, and the point where he's simply sozzled. The idea tonight is to catch him in between the latter two stages and whisk him back to the hotel. After Edge slams his fifth vodka, Bono sidles up and says, "Edge, aren't you a little tired?"

"What? No."

"Ah, good. Come with me then."

****

"Come on please, just once, I promise, if you don't like it I'll never ask you again."

Edge's eyes are heavily lidded but he obviously still has his judgment. "Well, do you think you deserve it? Have you been good?"

Bono says yes, but cowers, probably afraid that he did something bad but didn't realize it. But you've been keeping an eye on him and you know he's been good. You're not really involved in this but watching this exchange your breaths are shortened; surely Edge cannot deny him, not now. Never before have you cheered for Bono in this manner.

Edge sighs, but smiles. "Why don't we go down to the Jacuzzi for a while, and then we'll take a nice long shower, and then we'll see."

Bono is ecstatic. He snatches some towels from the bathroom and drags Edge out. "Wait!" Edge says, "we don't have any bathing suits, we'll have to find some..."

"We don't need those. No one else is gonna be there, you have any idea what time it is? Come on."

Bono is right; living the hours that U2 lives has advantages. To be wide awake at four in the morning is a great way to enjoy a night out without having to worry about being mobbed by throngs of fans. The Jacuzzi is indeed empty when they arrive. They take a quick look around for security cameras or other occupants, and finding none they strip and climb in. The hot water draws a sigh from them both simultaneously; they even hit the same note. It has been a long night. Edge has to fight Bono off, fearing someone will walk in and catch them at it, but Bono doesn't care. Edge was hoping to chill out and relax a bit here but Bono can't wait for what's about to happen. He paws at Edge, kisses up and down his neck and arms. They're not there for very long before Edge hauls Bono out of the tub and grumbles, "Well come on then."

The shower is also brief, but thorough. Bono and Edge soap each other frantically, vigorously. Bono grins the whole time, but is about ready to jump out of his soapy skin when Edge slides a lathered hand down behind him. They're barely in there long enough to steam up the place, but no matter; the atmosphere's pretty steamy anyway.

Edge follows Bono out of the bathroom. Bono flops on the bed, face up, and shows Edge his soft, strokable belly. "Come on, touch it," he says, and runs a hand over the dense, silky mat of hair to demonstrate. "You know you want to."

He seems to be stalling now. After all this fuss, he wants Edge to rub his belly?

Edge smirks and reaches out to pet Bono as requested, but turns his head away snootily, as if to say, "I'm doing this for your benefit, not mine."

Bono groans and coos, arching his back and encourages Edge to go lower. Oh, you get it now. Bono's trying to get Edge worked up. But Edge isn't going for it. Bono's cries of pleasure turn to cries of frustration. He sits up, twists Edge around so he's facing the right direction, and lies back on the bed, his own hand back on his abdomen.

"Kiss me here," he says.

Edge points in the general direction of Bono's navel. "There?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," Bono rolls his eyes as if it's a stupid question, "I like to see your head down there. I like the anticipation."

Edge shrugs and obeys, his lips brushing against the dark hairs, his tongue dipping into Bono's navel. "Lower, go lower," Bono says, but when he feels Edge's warm breath on his cock he shouts, "No, wait! No, don't do that." Edge shrugs and works his way back up to Bono's ribcage. "Lower, lower," he pleads again, but when Edge does he protests once more. Edge lifts his head.

"Do you want me to put your cock in my mouth or don't you?"

"No," says Bono. "You know what I want to you to do." He rolls over on his stomach and spreads his legs. Edge crawls between them, casting his towel aside. He strokes the insides of Bono's thighs, looking him over and smiling depite himself. Bono shivers at his touch, already writhing and whimpering.

"You need to calm down, mate."

"Explain to me how and I will."

Edge rolls his eyes. He runs one hand smoothly up Bono's thigh and over his rump, up to his back. With his other hand, he keeps himself propped up while he lays down, prone, between Bono's legs. He is starting to sober up now.

Bono's face is buried in the pillow, which is a shame because you'd really like to see his expression. But he seems determined not to let himself turn his head to see what Edge is doing. His breathing is shallow, when he remembers to breathe at all. He gasps when he feels himself being spread open. There is a short pause, and then the moist caress of Edge's tongue.

Edge proceeds gingerly at first, his warm tongue sliding over delicate pink flesh. He alternates teasing flicks with long, slow strokes. To hear Bono's muffled cries changes his attitude about the activity quite rapidly. He begins to probe with more enthusiasm, relishing the feeling of one deceptively powerful muscle exploring another. He licks down to Bono's balls, stroking them at the same time. Bono screams into the pillow.

"Stop! Stop!" Edge pauses and lets Bono breathe for a moment. "I had no idea it would feel that good...Oh god, it's gonna drive me crazy if you keep going..."

"Oh yeah?" Edge says, and he keeps going. He has to keep his hands firmly on Bono's body, to keep him still when he bucks, mutely asking for more. When Bono strains too hard against his grip, Edge gives him a gentle nip on his rump, right where the pink flesh fades to ivory. "Keep still," he says gruffly. He swirls his tongue around and around, until Bono's shrill cry pierces his eardrum. He looks up and gazes at the back of Bono's head in disbelief, as if to say, Jesus, it cannot be _that_ good, can it?

"Do you want more, or do you want me to fuck you?"

"Fuck me! Fuck me!"

Edge laughs low in his throat and he sits up and leans over Bono, taking the bottle of baby oil from the nightstand. He caresses Bono's rump with one hand while oiling himself with the other. Bono draws one knee up to spread himself for Edge.

You doubt that Edge could possibly be as eager as Bono, but you can sense his excitement. He draws Bono up so he's on his hands and knees. For pure speed, this position, you have learned, cannot be beat. Edge presses into Bono and digs his fingers into Bono's hips, filling him to the hilt. Bono is already rocking back to meet Edge's thrusts, and he's got one hand under him, jerking off. He is beyond words, grunting rhythmically as he and Edge approach orgasm at the same breakneck speed. Edge is quiet as usual; when their climaxes hit he opens his mouth as if to scream, but emits only a choked squeak.

Bono comes all over the sweaty sheets and they cast it aside before collapsing. Their bodies are too sore and over-stimulated to touch; they lay on opposite sides of the bed, where the bedclothes are still cool and untouched, reaching over to clasp their hands together, the last form of touch they can stand for the night.


End file.
